WHO: Adalia, Alistair, Freddie, Herian, Loghain, Medicine Seller, Melys, Nathaniel, Notas, Teren. WHAT: Rescuing a king, maybe. WHEN: Early Wintermarch WHERE: An island off Seheron, the Fade NOTES: Violence, disturbing imagery.
Pinching her brow, Teren endures this mess without shouting at anyone, but definitely has the look as though she'd very much have done it differently. Stepping up after the others, with both guards unconscious, she casually rifles through their pockets and pouches. Keys, potions, whatever they have that the party might need, nothing is safe. They should've thought of that before taking a post here.
Herian is dutifully aware of Teren's suffering, without feeling the need to comment on it. If it were a stealthy mage they were in need of, she could make far better recommendations than herself.
"Do you wish us to separate to cover more ground, or stay together?"
Quietly, to Alistair (and his cluster of Wardens) as she keeps a watchful eye cast further along the corridor. Separating was risky, but it was not as though staying grouped together was without dangers.
Well, that's a high energy spell she's not getting back anytime soon. Adalia sighs, but groups up closer to Loghain and nods emphatically.
"I agree. There's a cardinal rule among adventurers where I'm from: Don't split the party. We shouldn't separate, for any reason. It sounds like a good idea but it is always, always a bad one."
Alistair would be perfectly willing to go first, what with the shield and the armor, but it usually isn't the best idea. It usually means he finds traps—or enemy combatants—with his face. And the lighter-footed and magically-inclined ahead obviously don't need him. It still sits wrong, though, letting anyone else here except Loghain take the bigger risk, so he tries to comfort himself by taking up the rear instead, serving as a large barrier between the group and anyone who might try to come up on them from behind.
He alternates between looking back down the stairs and at Teren as she rifles through the pockets of the felled guards. She's not without luck: in addition to some coins and miscellaneous personal possessions, there's a ring of keys. To what? Who knows.
"We can split the rooms," he says without looking up, half to spite Loghain, with a wavy gesture to the doors lining the corridor ahead, "but no one wander off."
It isn’t a large corridor. No one will be out of earshot if anyone else.
“They’re holding him for his blood,” he explains—new information, maybe, for some—“so if you find. You know. Blood. Or anything about dragons, because are so interesting and I love them.”
He’s told more convincing lies in his life. But he isn’t going to announce even to this well-vetted and extremely trustworthy group that the Theirin dynasty was potentially built on freaky reaver bullshit.
However they progress, together or in one massive pack, the rooms will bear fruit. The ones on the right are mainly storage for armor, weapons, and weird artifacts both identifiable and not. The couple of doors on the left all lead to the same long chamber housing a shelf of books, a giant map not unlike the one in Skyhold’s war room, and a single snoring figure slumped over onto the map table.
She’ll lift her head when someone enters, but only to squint, clearly baffled.
The figure slumped and snoring over the map table will awaken to the sight of Loghain staring down at her coldly, his gaze clearly trying to assess whether she's a risk or simply a liability. "You'd do well to keep quiet," he tells her coldly--and, if she does, he'll take a look at that giant map.
Nathaniel leaves Loghain to study the map and nocks an arrow just in case the woman gets any ideas. He peers over the books in the shelf, curious as to what the magister studied in this room.
The map is all of Thedas, scattered with white stones—and two, emitting gentle like, like the lyrium glowstones in Orlais. The books are primarily draconology and old legends. And the woman is an elf, once she turns her head and her hair shifts to show her ears, and older, though not quite old.
She shakes her head at Loghain, but that seems to be instinct rather than disagreement, because her eyes go wide and her mouth stays shut. She looks from him, to the head of Nathaniel's arrow to anyone else in the room, and whispers—keeping quiet, doing well—"Are you here for Titus?"
"Yes," Alistair says from the doorway. It's not quite true; they're here for Maric. But Titus is going to die before they leave, too.
The woman exhales, then says, "Can I go with you when you leave?"
"Yes," Alistair says again. Anyone who disagrees with him can fight him. Or use logic. Whichever. But he doesn't anticipate this lot arguing with him about taking someone who wants to leave off the island, not when their hearts bleed enough to get them here in search of a dead king in the first place.
He doesn't leave the doorway, busy keeping half an eye on the end of the corridor in case someone else comes looking, but he glances in and raises his eyebrows questioningly at Nathaniel. What, as they say in the Marches, is up?
Herian arrives with a sword hanging at her side - a new sword, rather, with a strange translucent quality to it.
"We should take the map, mark the stones locations," more to herself than any of the others in particular, looking for a quill, something she can use to mark the map. She's not sure of the significance, but it could be something useful, even if she has exactly no idea what the map might mean just yet. A quick glance to the woman, after Alistair confirms that she will be coming with them. She has no protest to make; she's not about to deny someone freedom. After just a moment of hesitation, she asks the woman, "Do you know what the map is for?"
Maybe it won't be relevant for anything, but it could be.
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Stepping up after the others, with both guards unconscious, she casually rifles through their pockets and pouches. Keys, potions, whatever they have that the party might need, nothing is safe. They should've thought of that before taking a post here.
no subject
"Do you wish us to separate to cover more ground, or stay together?"
Quietly, to Alistair (and his cluster of Wardens) as she keeps a watchful eye cast further along the corridor. Separating was risky, but it was not as though staying grouped together was without dangers.
no subject
He looks to the others, gauging their opinions.
no subject
"I agree. There's a cardinal rule among adventurers where I'm from: Don't split the party. We shouldn't separate, for any reason. It sounds like a good idea but it is always, always a bad one."
no subject
He alternates between looking back down the stairs and at Teren as she rifles through the pockets of the felled guards. She's not without luck: in addition to some coins and miscellaneous personal possessions, there's a ring of keys. To what? Who knows.
"We can split the rooms," he says without looking up, half to spite Loghain, with a wavy gesture to the doors lining the corridor ahead, "but no one wander off."
It isn’t a large corridor. No one will be out of earshot if anyone else.
“They’re holding him for his blood,” he explains—new information, maybe, for some—“so if you find. You know. Blood. Or anything about dragons, because are so interesting and I love them.”
He’s told more convincing lies in his life. But he isn’t going to announce even to this well-vetted and extremely trustworthy group that the Theirin dynasty was potentially built on freaky reaver bullshit.
However they progress, together or in one massive pack, the rooms will bear fruit. The ones on the right are mainly storage for armor, weapons, and weird artifacts both identifiable and not. The couple of doors on the left all lead to the same long chamber housing a shelf of books, a giant map not unlike the one in Skyhold’s war room, and a single snoring figure slumped over onto the map table.
She’ll lift her head when someone enters, but only to squint, clearly baffled.
no subject
If not, well. They'll deal with her.
no subject
no subject
She shakes her head at Loghain, but that seems to be instinct rather than disagreement, because her eyes go wide and her mouth stays shut. She looks from him, to the head of Nathaniel's arrow to anyone else in the room, and whispers—keeping quiet, doing well—"Are you here for Titus?"
"Yes," Alistair says from the doorway. It's not quite true; they're here for Maric. But Titus is going to die before they leave, too.
The woman exhales, then says, "Can I go with you when you leave?"
"Yes," Alistair says again. Anyone who disagrees with him can fight him. Or use logic. Whichever. But he doesn't anticipate this lot arguing with him about taking someone who wants to leave off the island, not when their hearts bleed enough to get them here in search of a dead king in the first place.
He doesn't leave the doorway, busy keeping half an eye on the end of the corridor in case someone else comes looking, but he glances in and raises his eyebrows questioningly at Nathaniel. What, as they say in the Marches, is up?
no subject
"We should take the map, mark the stones locations," more to herself than any of the others in particular, looking for a quill, something she can use to mark the map. She's not sure of the significance, but it could be something useful, even if she has exactly no idea what the map might mean just yet. A quick glance to the woman, after Alistair confirms that she will be coming with them. She has no protest to make; she's not about to deny someone freedom.
After just a moment of hesitation, she asks the woman, "Do you know what the map is for?"
Maybe it won't be relevant for anything, but it could be.